The Fall
by SherlockROCKSmySOCKS
Summary: John is struggling to deal with the death of his best friend and discovers a coping method that could help him learn more about what really happened on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. My first fan fiction entry, reviews welcome and appreciated.
1. Nightmares

"Goodbye John." came the quavering voice from his mobile.

"No, Sherlock! NO!"

But the line had gone dead.

He watched, helpless as his best friend threw his phone aside and stepped closer to the edge.

He tried to call out again, to try to persuade him to stop, to think, to consider what he was doing, but the words died in his throat, coming out as a strangled sob.

Sherlock blinked tears out of his eyes, only for them to be replaced immediately, his vision blurring and swimming as he glanced once more over the edge.

"I'm so sorry John." He whispered and smiled gently, knowing, at least hoping that he would eventually be forgiven for what he was about to do.

Swallowing and squaring his shoulders, he jumped.

"No...Please God, no..." groaned the doctor wearily, feeling tears prick his eyes, hoping to high Heaven that he was dreaming.

The sickening crunch was more reality that he could argue with.

That pale, exotic, beautiful face smeared with his precious, vividly red blood. The dark curls violated and shining with the thick, sticky liquid oozing from his temple, the once bright and alert eyes now perpetually unfocused and dim.

He collapsed.

"No...No, NO!" screamed John, his eyes flying open and meeting the dark interior of his bedroom. Like a tide returning, all of the emotions of the past week came flooding back with terrible clarity, and his tears exploded with a heart-wrenching sob.

He heard his door creak open, and, for a split second he thought that it was Sherlock come to see if he was alright after another war flashback. He lifted his head from his hands and looked.

"Oh, John dear! Come here, love!" whispered Mrs. Hudson soothingly, sitting beside him.

He hiccupped and sobbed again.

"Oh, there there dear! I know...I know, it's hard..." she wrapped her arms around him and he couldn't help resting his head against her shoulder, his tears soaking into her dressing gown.

"...You know...s-sometimes I hate him...when I think what...what..." he couldn't carry on, it hurt too much to think.

"I know, what it's done to us all...but we can't help that now. We have to get on with our lives."

A new wave of sorrow hit him.

"I can't...I can't!"

"You have to, love."

"No...No. He's changed me forever..."

He was worse than he had been before he met S- _him_. He didn't go out unless he needed food. He didn't write his blog. He didn't read anything other than the newspapers. He didn't see or speak to anyone but Mrs. Hudson.

He just sat in _his_ chair.

And visited _his_ grave every single day.

He didn't know why, but he felt this strange hope burning somewhere in his heart that, maybe one day, he would go to the grave and _he_ would be standing there.

Alive.

Answering his prayers.

In an awful, impossible way it kept him going from one day to the next. Ironically, he often argued with the gravestone as if its owner was actually there; he thought sadly that somewhere, _he_ was laughing at him.


	2. Denial

_2 weeks after the 'fall'_

John wandered towards the familiar spot under the sheltering tree, unable to either move closer or walk away. Shivering despite the friendly warmth of the sun, he pushed forward. As had become his tradition, he began his communion with his friend by touching the headstone, as one would in saying the Sign of the Cross.

"Hi Sherlock."

Silence. Typical of the detective.

"So, what's all this about then? When are you going to come back?"

Still silence. It was just as bad as it had been when he was al- still around.

"I know you're not a fake, I don't believe you."

"_I know. You never would believe me when I told you I was not what I seemed."_

John blinked. Had he just _heard_ Sherlock?

He spun frantically, looking for the tall, thin figure of his best friend.

The cemetery was empty.

He mind was playing tricks on him.

"Why did you do it?"

"_You know I'm not a suicide case."_

"Then why?"

Silence.

"Why can I hear you?"

Silence still. He had always been like this.

John leaned up against the tree and shoved his hands into his pockets, thinking.

"Oh, you're really my mind attempting to deal with this, aren't you?"

"_Very good, John. Good theory."_

"Am I right then?"

Silence.

The doctor nodded. His mind was trying to repair its trauma, using his extensive knowledge of the detective's manner, voice and speech patterns to create a dialogue, but it could only answer questions he already knew the answers to.

"I am right."

"_Indeed."_

"I refuse to believe that you're dead, it's not possible."

"_Well at least you have faith."_

"You're alive somewhere. You'll come back soon, you couldn't stay normal for that long."

"_Oh, ha ha."_

"You're not helping, you know."

"_When do I ever?"_

"You help all the time. You helped me."

"_John."_

Just to hear his voice, saying his name...he could see his face, an eyebrow raised and his mouth shaped into an irritated pout.

"I'll wait for you. You know I will."

"_I know."_

"I probably look like an idiot, talking to air as if there's someone here to reply."

"_You often do. No offence."_

He smiled sadly, "None taken."

"_Hmph."_

"The flat's a tip."

"_It always was."_

"I can't get rid of your things. You'll be coming back eventually."

Silence.

"Mrs. Hudson thinks I need to move on."

"_You do."_

"But you're not dead. You can't be." He felt tears forming.

Silence.

"I-I'll see you later Sherlock. Bye."

"_Goodbye."_

John turned, striding away and wiping a shaking hand across his face.

On the other side of the tree, a tall man bit his cupid's bow lip, a single, lonely, crystal tear sliding over his cheekbone.


	3. Anger

_2 months after the 'fall'_

It was sunny and warm, but John wasn't feeling any of it. He was too hot inside anyway, a boiling, spitting anger burning his veins.

He stood before the grave, legs spread as if he was about to punch someone. Hard.

"Why did you do it?"

Silence.

"Didn't you think about how everyone else would feel? Didn't you think about me?"

"_Of course I did."_

The calm voice annoyed him just as much as it had before.

"And yet you still did it?"

"_Yes."_

"Wh- There's no point in asking you why, you can't tell me." He pressed his lips together as if to hold back another outburst.

"_Exactly."_

"I hate you sometimes, you know. When I think how _selfish_ you've been in all of this!"

"_I know. I told you once; 'Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."_

I know!"

Silence.

"You know Sherlock, if you really are still alive, if you ever come back, I'm going to kill you all over again!"

"_Oh, now that's a threat."_

"Shut UP Sherlock!"

"_I thought you wanted me to talk to you."_

"I- Sherlock, I just want you to come back and tell me why. I want you to give up this whole 'being dead' thing!"

Silence.

"Fine then! Be like that you arrogant, attention-seeking bastard!"

"_I prefer 'enigmatic'."_

"You're incorrigible! Even when you're not here!"

"_Even 'dynamic' would do."_

"You're still an annoying prick, still a smart-arse!"

"_Genius I think you'll find."_

"If you're so smart, why did you chuck yourself off a fucking building?"

Silence.

"This is a fine way to cope! I'm standing in a graveyard arguing with thin air, and getting precisely nowhere!"

"_It wasn't my idea."_

"It wasn't mine either! I could have just stood here and seethed inwardly, and then gone home, seethed some more, and then shot the bloody wall!"

"_Now you see the benefits of having a tolerant housekeeper."_

"Mrs. Hudson doesn't deserve that! She didn't deserve it when you did it either!"

"_She wasn't in!"_

"Big difference! She put up with you and all your shit and I helped her clear up the wreckage!"

"_She is a good housekeeper though."_

"Landlady! Not a housekeeper!"

"_She pretty much is!"_

"No, she just dotes on you! She treats you like a son...both of us..."

_We practically are."_

"She's finding it hard too you know! She's an old woman and she could do without the trouble you've been giving her!"

"_I know. I'm sorry."_

"Oh? Are you? Shame you didn't tell her when you were still around to help!"

"_I know, John."_

"...hold the phone! You _knew_ she wasn't dying! You _knew_ she hadn't been shot!"

Silence.

"You knew, or you would have come with me!"

"_Would I?"_

"Yes! You _knew_! So you wanted me out of the hospital...So that you and 'Jim' could have your little genius meeting!"

Silence.

"Why did you shut me out? Just like you shut me out about the swimming pool! Why can you never tell me about what you're involved in?"

"_The swimming pool was for your own safety."_

"I wasn't very safe! I got kidnapped and strapped to a bloody bomb!"

"_I didn't know that would happen."_

"So...what? Killing yourself was somehow for _my _safety?"

Silence.

"Didn't you think about how I'd feel?"

"_Of course."_

"I don't understand you."

"_Maybe one day you will."_

"I doubt that."

"_So do I."_

"See you around Sherlock."

"_See you later."_

John wondered if somehow this healing process, these 'conversations' were going to continue to reveal clues to what really happened up of the roof of St. Bart's; it was almost as if Sherlock was directing him to work things out for himself.


	4. Bargaining

_4 months after the 'fall'_

The doctor strolled down the gravel path, a coat slung over his shoulder, the sun beating down on him.

He touched the cool black stone gently and spread out the jacket, sitting and leaning against the tree trunk.

"Hello Sherlock."

"_Hello."_

"It ain't half hot."

"_Isn't."_

"You and your bloody grammar."

"_Proper English is very important."_

"I know, I know. Are you ever coming back? It's been four months now. What do I have to do?"

"_Wait."_

"So you _are_ alive?"

Silence.

"Please. What do I have to do? If you're alive, then surely you know what I'm doing, what I'm going through. Do I have to get myself killed? Arrested? Married? There must be something I can do, please Sherlock, anything."

"_Don't put yourself in danger, John."_

"Then what?"

Silence.

"Can't you tell me?"

"_Can't you work it out for yourself?"_

"You know I can't!"

"_You're smarter than you think, John. Don't sell yourself short and don't rely on me, you know it's pointless."_

You are alive. You will come back."

"_What if I don't?"_

"Then I don't know."

"_You can't wait forever."_

"Can't you tell me what to do, where to look?"

"_If you don't know, then I can't tell you."_

"Please. Anyone. God. Why can't you just give me a sign?"

Silence. A slight breeze rustled the leaves above him. Somewhere close a crow squawked.

John sighed and shifted, rising up onto his knees and joining his hands self-consciously.

"God, you know I'm not a praying man, but you were listening when I was shot in Afghanistan, you may even have sent me Sherlock to help me get over the wound. Please, he isn't dead. I know he's not. I can feel it. Please, I'll do anything, please bring him back, I – t-things aren't the same without him. M-my limp is back, and...And my arm hurts all the time. He fixed everything, and now it's all fallen apart. I need him back, he's my best friend. Please, please..."

John had sagged down, his head resting on his knees by Sherlock's headstone, tears dripping onto his jeans.

"Why, Sherlock? Why..." he breathed, the lump in his throat constricting his breathing, paining him as he swallowed in an attempt to force it away.

"You're my only real friend...and you're gone..." he sobbed.

"_You're my only friend too."_

"Y-You've got Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They a-act like your mother and father!" he let go of a nervous laugh.

"_I suppose so. Hmpf."_

"You do have a heart."

"_Apparently so. Moriarty did say he would burn it out of me."_

"Yeah. Looks like you beat him to it."

"_Indeed."_

"...You said you sent me to Mrs. Hudson because it was for my own safety...!"

"_No I didn't. You surmised this."_

"Were you only protecting me?"

Silence.

"If your friends are your heart, did he threaten you?"

A bird was singing somewhere nearby, cutting through the quiet with its cheery song.

"He threatened me, Mrs. Hudson...even Lestrade, your closest allies and defenders...and the trade-off was your suicide..."

Still no reply, but John's mind was racing now.

"You had to kill yourself, to prove that you were a fake, you had to look guilty...That was the price, and you paid it. For us..."

The tears were back, threatening to break through.

"You said that he was using your life story as a basis for his smear campaign, you said he'd destroy you one piece at a time...in the end you had to commit the final act to seal the deal..."

"_He succeeded."_

"You killed yourself for us...you tried to make me believe, with your last words that you were a fake..."

"_I did."_

"I wasn't convinced for a second."

"_I know."_

"Why?"

Silence.

"It was inescapable...no doubt Moriarty had it all planned to the very last detail..."

The crow cawed again.

"He shot himself didn't he, so that you had no choice?"

"_It was Moriarty."_

"And you're Sherlock Holmes! The world's only Consulting Detective!"

"_Looks like I lost."_

"No...Sherlock..."

"_Yes John."_

"But I still don't understand..."

"_You know me John; know my methods. You will understand eventually. I believe in you."_

"And I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes."

He stood shakily and touched the cool stone.

"See you, Sherlock."

"_Goodbye."_


	5. Depression

_6 months after the 'fall'_

John turned his coat collar up against the wind and driving rain, jogging down the soggy gravel path. Shaking a shower of raindrops from his hair, he leaned against the tree trunk, sheltered by the strong branches.

He sighed heavily, the weather matched his mood.

"Hey Sherlock."

"_What's wrong?"_

"You. You aren't coming back, are you?"

Silence.

"I thought you were alive...I-I thought you were going to come back..." His tears mixed in with the rain dripping from his hair.

"_I thought you believed."_

"I do! I do...I just...It's hard to. It's been six months and you haven't sent any word. Mycroft has stopped texting. You've even convinced him!"

"_He's nothing compared to me."_

"That's not entirely true."

"_I don't need his help."_

"You might still be here if you'd let him help you!"

"_I doubt that."_

"Sherlock!"

"_...John?"_

"Why can't you just come back and make everything alright again?" he sniffed, wiping water and tears from his face.

"_Like I made things better."_

"You did! You did..."

"_More exciting, maybe...better? No."_

"That was better for _me_!"

Silence.

"Mrs. Hudson thinks I'm losing it."

"_She always thought we were odd."_

"I just sit in your chair all day."

"_It is very comfortable."_

"You violin is where you left it."

"_It should really be back in its case."_

"The house is dead."

"_No its not."_

"It's silent and cold."

Silence.

"There's no life in it anymore."

"_There's you and Mrs. Hudson."_

"You were the energy though..."

"_I was rather, wasn't I? An engine, a racing engine."_

"We've all changed."

"_You haven't."_

"I'm like I was before I met you..."

"_Maybe you never should have."_

"No, you're wrong. I would have done nothing with my life."

"_Don't John. You would have made something of yourself; no matter what you think might have happened."_

"I miss you. Even when you pissed me off...especially when you pissed me off." He laughed, despite the tears falling steadily down his cheeks.

"_You always did enjoy arguing."_

"So did you. Proving how smart you were."

"_I'm a show-off. It's what I do."_

"I know, it was entertaining, no matter how rude you got."

"_Hmph. Ha ha, yes, I was rather rude wasn't I?"_

"Positively awful!"

"_Ha ha ha..."_

The wind whipped up under the tree, making John shiver. He pulled Sherlock's old blue scarf tighter around his neck and smiled.

"Hope you don't mind, my using your scarf."

"_Not at all. That's my old ragged one anyway."_

John nodded, looking away from the stone and up into the shifting branches above him.

He sighed.

"You're not coming back, are you?" his voice cracked halfway through, and he had to bite his shaking lip to hold back a sob.

"_...maybe not."_

John nodded disjointedly, pressing his mouth closed and letting his tears fall silently.

"I...I'll see you later, Sherlock."

"_Bye, John."_

The doctor didn't even bother trying to shield himself from the elements. He walked away with his head held high, feeling the sharp lashes of rain and freezing breaths of wind with heightened senses, his tears mingling with the awful November rain.

A tall figure watched the retreating man, letting loose a distraught sob and wiping a hand across his cheekbones, his face soaked with tears.

"John...I'm so sorry...so, so sorry." He breathed, his words catching in his throat.

"I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please."


	6. Acceptance

A.N. Sorry it's been a while, I've had exams to do X_X

_1 year after the 'fall'_

John tramped through the thick snow, hands jammed in his coat pockets, head down. He stopped before the gravestone, knelling down and gently pushing the layer of snow from the top, wiping away the layer of frost on the face.

"Hello Sherlock."

"_Hello, where have you been?"_

"Sorry I haven't been for a while, Mrs. Hudson needed some help decorating."

"_Ugh. Domestic things."_

He laughed gently, "Yeah, you never really were one for them."

"_What's wrong?"_

"I...I've had a text from Mycroft. He says that they've caught up with all of the key figures in Moriarty's employ, and have surveillance on hundreds of previously unknown gangs, crime syndicates and terrorist cells."

"_Well whoopee for him."_

"I think it's finally made me realise that you probably aren't coming back..."

"_Really?"_

"I can't see how you would pass up a chance to crush his memory once and for all if you were still...around."

Silence.

"I don't know what to do with your things..."

"_Whatever you like, I suppose."_

"If you really are..._aren't_ coming home then it seems wrong to keep them."

"_Then don't."_

"But it wouldn't be 221B Baker Street without them...without the mess...without you."

Silence.

"I don't think I can."

"_Then don't."_

"It'll be empty without them."

"_True."_

"Will I...Will I still be able to talk to you?"

"_I don't know."_

"I don't know how I'd carry on without coming here and being able to speak to you...to hear your voice again..."

"_We all have to move on sometime."_

"I know...but it's hard."

"_It isn't easy for anyone."_

"I still don't entirely comprehend _why_ you felt you had no choice but to ki-to leave, but I think I can maybe see some of your reasons."

"_Maybe?"_

"Maybe."

The silence was accented by the thick layer of snow covering everything in sight.

"I do need to move on."

"_So try."_

"How though?"

Silence.

He thought for a moment, and his conclusion made his eyes prickle horribly.

"...I have to believe...to state that you're gone, don't I?"

"_I don't know."_

"I think I do. To come to terms with it is to say it without reservation."

Silence.

"Sherlock, I forgive you-" he sobbed suddenly, "I...I-I forgive you for _what_ you did, a-and I thank you for _why_ you did it."

"_Thank you, John...so you understand then?"_

"Yes-Yes I understand..."

"_Goodbye John."_

The voice was the same as it had been on the phone one year previous; shaking and alone.

"Goodbye Sherlock, and good luck, wherever you are."

He laid a hand on the black gravestone, feeling the cold radiating from its dead core and sighed, trying to steady his voice.

"I...I-I accept that Sherlock Holmes...that m-my best friend...i-is...is..." he took another deep and shaking breath, tears streaming thickly down his face, his voice barely a whisper.

"...I accept that he is dead."

Suddenly, as quickly a light would go out, John felt something deep inside his heart snap. He looked down at the stone, cold and impassive, much as it owner had been on occasion.

"S-Sherlock?" he breathed, listening intently.

Nothing.

"Sherlock, are you there?"

Silence.

"You're gone aren't you? For good."

Snowflakes slowly began to fall from the heavens, and his heart twisted at the thought that it could have been his friend crying.

"I'll never hear you again..."

He looked about him, taking in the peaceful, beautiful scene as it mocked him with his loud, raging, chaotic emotions within.

"I take it back! I don't believe that he's dead! I don't! He's alive!"

The silence was excruciating.

John sobbed, failing to hold back the tidal wave of tears.

"He's not! He's not...he's alive..."

He sagged to his knees and cried, a hand pressed against the freezing, unyielding stone.

Silence. Complete, painful silence.

"I can't...I can't! This isn't fair! This isn't right! I don't want this anymore!"

He sucked in lungfuls of icy air, "I don't want this any more...I want him back...I want him back..."

The snow fell gently about him, and he cried silently before the grave, oblivious to the world.

Only metres away, another figure clamped a hand over its mouth, rivers of tears pouring over the dam of long, pale fingers and soaking into a dark blue scarf.

"What have I done to you, John Watson?" he whispered, deep baritone voice shattered with grief, broken by pain.

"What have I done?"


	7. Warmth

_3 years after the 'fall'_

John had left the grave that day as cold as the black stone which marked it. He'd gone into isolation mode, cutting himself off from all emotion and feeling. He'd told himself that it was a simple reaction to coming to terms with the death. It wasn't. He hadn't come to terms with it. Not by a long shot. It was a self-preservation mechanism to stop himself breaking down, holding his fragile heart and mind together. The worst kind of coping technique imaginable.

For three months he lived like a ghost, the shell of a man who had been broken and battered beyond any thought of repair. Three month he grieved. It was worse than it had ever been before.

Three months. Three, _long_ months.

Then, one day, he remembered what Sherlock had said to him; _"I believe in you. You're smarter than you think."_

He snapped into action, getting back his old job at the surgery and promised himself that he would do right by Sherlock and get on with his life. 'It's what he would have wanted', he thought sadly.

He worked every day, harder than he'd ever worked in his whole life, and attempted to make himself believe that he enjoyed being back in a normal routine, doing normal things and having a normal life. He didn't, but he refused to let it show.

Sherlock Holmes had changed his life for a second time, and it wasn't in a good way.

He had visited the grave less and less as time went by, finding it hard to return without the incentive of knowing he would hear Sherlock's voice, and only went to change the flowers and remove the weeds.

He had gotten on with his life, just as he'd said he would. It didn't make him feel any better.

Three years on he'd gotten himself into a dreary routine and stuck and stuck to it.

It was cold and damp in London, and John had been out on one of his regular shopping trips, carrying home a fairly light bag compared to the huge loads he used to have to shift. The black door of 221B Baker Street swung aside as he nudged it with his arm, pushing it closed behind him.

He was barely three steps into the building before he heard it.

A sound he hadn't heard in..._Three years._

The beautifully light, gentle tones of a violin drifted about him, carrying the calm melody of _'Gabriel's Oboe'_. The soft, sweet music was heavenly, almost ethereal, and he moved forward slowly, uncomprehending. The music drew him up the stairs silently, pulling him towards it with hypnotic power.

He foot touched the top step and it creaked as he put his weight on it.

The music stopped.

He almost shook it off as his imagination playing cruel tricks on him, to pass it off as wishful thinking, but something forced him onwards, a hope he hadn't felt burning in a long time.

The flat door was ajar. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was sure he'd locked it.

Stretching out a shaking hand, he pushed it gently and stepped across the threshold.

Silhouetted be the contrastingly bright light from outside, a tall, thin figure stood before the window, its back to him.

He put down his shopping bag.

The figure, that he would have recognised anywhere, carefully laid the violin and bow down on the desk and turned.

John's heart skipped a beat as he took in the apparition before him.

The face was ghostly pale, but then hadn't it always been? The nose straight; high, defined cheekbones, cupid's bow lips...The eyes. Pale. Bright. Alert. And wet. Swimming with unshed tears.

He didn't look a day older.

The gray-green, cat-like eyes appraised the doctor, finding that some of the creases in his forehead were deeper, and there was a little more silver in his blond hair than there had been before, his eyes tired and unbelieving as they stared back.

For several more moments neither moved a muscle, waiting to see if they were about to wake up.

Then, like magnets unable to escape their attraction to each other, they moved simultaneously.

John threw his arms around the detective, burying his head in his shoulder to stifle a sob. He felt long, strong arms around him, a gentle hand on the back of his neck.

For the first time in three long years, John felt warm again.

Tears dripped from the younger, taller man's nose onto the shoulder of Watson, quickly creating a large damp patch. He felt that something should be said, but for once he was speechless, lacking the words to articulate into expressing his feelings.

They drew apart slightly; looking at each other with so many emotions neither could have described them individually.

The warmth in John's bones spread, and he soon realised just how furious he was. Seeing the new light in the doctor's eyes, the detective spread his hands a little, inviting him in.

John seethed and drew back a fist, driving it with venom into the other man's face, who took the blow without a word.

As the red mist dissipated from Watson's vision, he saw the small cut he'd made on his cheek and immediately felt guilty. A little.

The detective's lips twitched and curling into a grin of genuine happiness.

It was infectious.

He laughed, low and rumbling like thunder, hugging the shorter man again, harder, as if vowing to never let go.

"Sherlock?" breathed John cautiously, not quite daring to say his name louder for fear that it might all be a lie.

"Yes, John?"

He smiled lopsidedly.

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Never, ever leave me again." He felt tears forming.

"I promise. I'm never going to leave your side ever again."

John smirked despite the tears.

"You had better not, or I'll bloody kill you."

Sherlock smiled and shrugged off his coat, hanging it on his peg, followed by his scarf, then walked back and sat in his chair.

The symbolism was not lost on John.

"Do you fancy a cup of tea?"

"I'd love one."

The music resumed and the doctor pressed his eyes shut.

The limp was gone.

His arm was fine.

The questions could wait.

_He_ was home.

Everything was going to be alright.

A.N. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, I hope it was worth the wait for the ending! x


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